


Summer Holiday

by cirnelle



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period-Typical Attitudes toward Homosexuality, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnelle/pseuds/cirnelle
Summary: “Napoleon,” said Illya, very slowly.“Don’t say it, I beg of you.”“Did you...really bring me on a vacation to a clandestine romantic getaway for homosexual couples?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Летний отпуск](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476159) by [BlueSunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSunrise/pseuds/BlueSunrise)



> 1) This can be read in either movie or TV verse.
> 
> 2) T.H.R.U.S.H., the main villains from the TV series, are mentioned a few times here, but you don’t have to know anything about them to read this story!
> 
> 3) Contains some mentions of period-typical attitudes towards homosexuality.

 

“I can’t believe Mr. Waverly agreed to let us both take our vacations at the same time,” said Napoleon Solo to his partner, happily loading his suitcase onto the weighing station at the baggage counter of New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. Their boss had agreed – albeit grudgingly – to let his top team take a week off during the slow summer months, and Napoleon had planned for them to spend their shared vacation getting some much-needed relaxation in Europe together.

“T.H.R.U.S.H. has been very quiet. I suppose summer holidays take precedence over world domination,” said Illya Kuryakin, loading his significantly smaller suitcase onto the weighing station after the ticketing agent had finished tagging Napoleon’s. “What I cannot believe, though, is that I let you persuade me to vacation with you again, after what happened the _last_ time.”

“Oh, come on,” said Napoleon. “That was _once_.” He took the tickets and receipt that the ticketing agent handed to him, smiling at her flirtatiously. Behind him, Illya surreptitiously rolled his eyes.

“And how was I to know that T.H.R.U.S.H. was going to try to steal works of art from the Louvre to help finance their operations, just when we happened to be there?” continued Napoleon, looking injured. “Honestly, who steals from the _Louvre_ , anyway? There are _definitely_ easier places to rob.”

“Never let it be said,” replied Illya dryly, “that T.H.R.U.S.H. does not set ambitious goals.”

“Anyway,” said Napoleon. “That’s not going to happen again. I chose a really out-of-the-way place this time.” He grinned. “You’ll love it, though – the restaurant at this hotel is supposed to be _amazing_.”

Illya looked slightly mollified. “If you say so.”

Napoleon nodded vigorously. “Oh, I do.”

 

***

 

Twelve hours and two flights later, Napoleon and Illya picked up their suitcases and headed out of the airport to pick up the rental car that Napoleon had booked.

Illya raised an eyebrow. “A convertible?”

“We _are_ on vacation,” said Napoleon with a grin. “And the weather’s supposed to be really nice this week.”

Illya snorted and shot his partner a glance that was part amused, part indulgent, then got into the passenger side of the car, carefully putting the large cup of coffee he was carrying for Napoleon into the cup holder between them.

“The hotel’s about an hour and a half out of the city, if traffic’s good,” said Napoleon.

Illya nodded agreeably, settling back into the passenger seat, loose-limbed and relaxed.

Traffic was fairly light and they made it out of the city in good time. As the sun drew lower in the sky, the paved streets and the bustle of the city gradually faded into smaller, rougher country lanes and the verdant green of trees untouched by city pollution. Napoleon put the top of the car down, and both men breathed deeply of the cool, crisp country air. Illya stretched lazily, then pushed his seat back, tilting his head up to the warm sunlight. He tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

Napoleon glanced over at his partner and grinned. “Making yourself comfortable, I see.”

“I am on vacation,” Illya reminded him placidly, eyes still closed.

Chuckling softly, Napoleon turned the radio on, and they drove on in comfortable silence to the soothing strains of Ella Fitzgerald. Humming softly along to the radio, Napoleon kept one hand on the steering wheel, resting his other arm comfortably along the back of Illya’s seat, hand just barely brushing his partner’s blond hair. The cool, fresh country air whipped through his hair, and Napoleon sighed contentedly as he guided the car along the narrow country roads. This was going to be a great vacation, he could feel it.

 

***

 

Slightly under an hour later, Napoleon turned the car into the wide gravel driveway of a huge, stately mansion and drove around to the back, where a sign indicated there was parking available for hotel visitors. There were some other cars already parked there, but there was still ample room to park. Illya stirred just as he pulled the parking brake up, reached over for Napoleon’s coffee cup and took a sip, winced, grumbled about the coffee being cold, then sat up and eyed the hotel with interest.

They got out of the car, and just as they were unloading their suitcases from the back of the car, the back door of the lodge opened, and two beautiful women, one blonde and the other brunette, strolled out, arm-in-arm. Napoleon, suitcase in hand, eyed them appreciatively as Illya busied himself getting his own suitcase out from the car.

As Napoleon looked on, the brunette slipped her arms around the blonde, pulling her close; the blonde lifted her head, pressing her lips to her companion’s in a kiss that started out chaste then grew rapidly less so. Napoleon’s mouth dropped open.

Illya turned, suitcase in hand. “Come on, Napoleon,” he said impatiently, then, seeing Napoleon’s surprised expression, turned to look at what his partner was staring at. He blinked.

The two women drew apart, smiling and murmuring quietly to each other. The blonde leaned over to her companion, whispering in her ear, then they both turned to look at Napoleon and Illya, giggling at their poleaxed expressions.

“Don’t worry,” the brunette said to them confidingly. “They’re very discreet here – nobody’s going to report you to the police, or anything like that.”

“We book this package every summer,” agreed the blonde cheerfully. “I think there are at least nine other couples like us here this year – well, ten, if we count the two of you. It’s so nice to be able to actually act like a couple in public for a few days, without constantly worrying about repercussions.”

“It must be your first time here,” the brunette said knowingly. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it soon enough. They close the resort to other guests this week, so you can be as open as you want.” She winked at them, then with matching smiles and waves, the two women strolled into the grounds of the lodge, leaving Napoleon and Illya staring after them.

“Napoleon,” said Illya, very slowly.

“Don’t say it, I beg of you.”

“Did you... _really_ bring me on a vacation to a clandestine romantic getaway for homosexual couples?”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Napoleon earnestly. “I swear.”

Illya cast Napoleon a deeply suspicious look.

“I just picked the most obscure place I could find!” said Napoleon defensively.

“So did all these other people, apparently,” Illya informed him.

Napoleon sighed deeply.

 

***

 

“I suppose this is not a total loss,” said Illya grudgingly that evening, as they began a late dinner in the restaurant on the first floor of the hotel. “The food really _is_ very good.”

Napoleon beamed, pleased. “Do you mind, though,” he said, a little hesitantly, “about the whole, ah...” he stopped and waved his hand around vaguely.

Illya gave him a blank look.

Napoleon took a deep breath. “About everyone here assuming we’re a couple,” he clarified. When they’d checked in, the staff at the reception had assumed that they were here for whatever “package” the two women they’d met earlier had mentioned, and the large room they’d been given, while beautifully and tastefully appointed, had also contained a chilled bottle of champagne and rose petals scattered all over the bed. Napoleon had stopped dead in the middle of the room, aghast, not knowing whether to laugh or to apologize profusely to his partner. Illya, meanwhile, had put his suitcase down and started calmly picking rose petals off the blanket.

“I do not mind,” said Illya, systematically demolishing the remainder of his escargot appetizer. “There has, after all, been the occasional rumor about us to that effect ever since we were partnered,” he added dryly. He put his tongs and snail fork down and peered closely at Napoleon. “Does it bother _you_?”

“No, no,” Napoleon said hastily. He eyed his partner. “So you don’t mind, then, if you’re – er – mistaken for a homosexual?”

“It would,” said Illya, “be rather hypocritical of me to object.” He lifted his chin, eyes meeting Napoleon’s forthrightly. There was something almost challenging in his gaze, yet Napoleon could see the hint of vulnerability behind the show of bravado – what he wasn’t sure of was whether Illya was _letting_ him see it, or whether he just knew his partner that well by now.

Napoleon blinked, heart hammering in his chest. “Oh.” He hesitated, wavering; but Illya had just gifted him with such personal information without even having any idea of how he, Napoleon, would react to such an admission, trusting Napoleon when one word from him could get Illya fired or arrested, and he knew at that moment that the very least he owed his partner and best friend was the truth, a truth he himself had only recently become comfortable with. A truth he’d grown to accept when it had become clear to him that his feelings for a certain irascible blond-haired, blue-eyed Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent were starting to move rather beyond the realm of what could reasonably be considered platonic. Oh, he’d experimented before, but it had never been anything serious. Not until now.

Illya waited patiently.

“It would be...hypocritical of me to object, too,” admitted Napoleon slowly, and had the pleasure of seeing one of Illya’s brows arch in genuine surprise.

“I like women too, though,” he added.

“That,” said Illya, “I _did_ notice,” and Napoleon laughed, relaxing. He picked up his spoon and enthusiastically started on his French onion soup, and the talk turned to other matters. Illya had looked through the brochure of available activities in their hotel room earlier, and suggested that they do a hike the next day, which Napoleon readily agreed to.

As they were almost finished with their main dishes and were each on their second glass of an excellent Bordeaux, Napoleon found his right hand creeping towards Illya’s left, outstretched on the table as his partner’s other hand – and his full attention – were occupied with scooping up the last bite of his sole meunière. Shocked at himself for unthinkingly acting like he was on a date, Napoleon hurriedly drew his hand back before Illya could notice. _Just because he’s homosexual doesn’t mean that he’d be interested in you_ , he scolded himself, and wrapped his traitorous hand firmly around his wine glass to prevent it from straying again.

He looked up from deep contemplation of his wine glass to find Illya staring at him, a small furrow between his brows. “Are you all right? Your face is quite red,” Illya observed. Napoleon was saved from having to reply by the timely arrival of their waiter with the dessert menus, which Illya immediately buried his nose in.

They were halfway through their desserts, eating in comfortable silence, before either of them spoke again.

“Illya,” Napoleon whispered urgently, ducking his head so that his nose was almost in his slice of rhubarb pie.

Illya gave him a strange look. “Yes?”

“Remember when we cleaned up that drug ring in Budapest four months ago?”

“I am not yet senile, Napoleon,” replied Illya irritably. “Of course I remember.”

“The leader, that guy that got away?”

“Ah, yes, Daniel Varga. The one that you shot at but _missed_ ,” said Illya severely.

“He’s here,” Napoleon hastily interrupted before his partner could launch into a diatribe on Napoleon’s shooting skills, which were excellent, thank you very much.

Illya, spoon raised halfway to his mouth, looked interested. “Here where?”

“Here _here_ ,” hissed Napoleon. “Near that potted plant by the kitchen, two tables away.”

Illya chanced a casual glance over, and his eyebrows rose. “So he is.” Varga had been alone at his table, but as Napoleon and Illya looked over again, another man, broad and heavily mustached, strode up to the table, pulling out a chair and seating himself stiffly opposite their quarry.

Napoleon’s brow furrowed. “Do they look like lovers to you?” he asked quietly.

Illya frowned at him in silent query.

“Those women we met when we got here told us that the hotel was closed to other guests this week,” Napoleon reminded his partner. “So it’s just supposed to be – er – couples here right now. Those two – they’re not acting like a couple in the least.”

Illya nodded in agreement. “This is a good place for him to conduct his business,” he observed. “Especially this week, no questions will be asked about two men setting up a rendezvous here.”

Distracted by the momentary fantasy of himself and Illya setting up a rendezvous at this hotel, Napoleon made no reply.

“We should plant trackers on both of them,” Illya muttered, deep in thought.

“And search their room,” Napoleon agreed, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand. He frowned, drumming his fingers on the table. “It’s a pity we’re on vacation – I didn’t bring any trackers with me.”

“I did,” said Illya smugly.

Napoleon looked at his partner with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “Right, of course you did.” He chanced another quick glance over at the other table. Varga and his companion were ignoring each other entirely, focusing on their appetizers. “We should plant the trackers now, while they’re still having dinner.”

Illya signaled the waiter for the check, then waited patiently while Napoleon ticked the box to charge the meal to their room and signed off on the slip of paper. Once he was done, the two men rose, heading out the side door of the restaurant and rounding the corner toward the stairs.

As they walked past the glass-paneled front of the restaurant, they saw Varga rise from his table and turn to head toward the main doors. If he came out through those doors, he’d walk right into them.

“Damn,” muttered Napoleon, “we can’t bump into him, he’ll recognize me.” He grabbed his partner’s arm and turned around, intent on escape.

Illya shook off Napoleon’s arm, grabbed him by the lapels, shoved him up against the wall and kissed him hard.

Napoleon froze. While his brain was still playing catch-up, the rest of his body had no such qualms and was happily reveling in the feel of Illya’s body pressed against his, nothing but lean, hard muscle, and noting that _wow_ , Illya had an _extraordinarily_ talented tongue, could he please keep kissing Napoleon _just like that_ –

After what felt like much too short a period of time, Illya released him and stepped back, smoothing his shirt down. Napoleon blinked at his partner dazedly. “Wha – ?”

“Blending in,” Illya explained solemnly. “Our friend walked right by us and did not notice you at all.” With a slight gesture, he indicated Varga’s rapidly retreating back as the man strode away from them, toward the hotel reception.

Napoleon couldn’t blame Varga. Apart from the taste of Illya’s lips, he hadn’t noticed much else, either.

“Come on,” said Illya, turning to head back to their room. Napoleon unthinkingly touched a finger to his lips, blinked, realized what he was doing, hastily lowered his hand and trailed after Illya, relieved that he still seemed to be able to manage walking just fine even though his knees felt like jelly. He’d seen the flush darkening Illya’s high cheekbones before his partner had turned around, too, and felt a small measure of satisfaction that he hadn’t been the only one so affected by their kiss. Even if it was just a kiss for camouflage purposes, so it didn’t really count. Did it?

 

***

 

After they’d retrieved the trackers and a lockpicking set from Illya’s suitcase in their room (and really, _how much gear_ did he bring on vacation with him – Napoleon really needed to cure him of that habit, even if it did come in useful at times – like now), they headed downstairs back to the hotel reception.

“I’ll distract the receptionist while you check the registration ledger to see which room Varga’s in,” Napoleon murmured to Illya.

Illya rolled his eyes. “You just want to flirt with the receptionist,” he grumbled.

“Jealous?” asked Napoleon, grinning at his partner.

Illya scowled at him, not deigning to reply.

“I’m not going to flirt with her,” Napoleon told him mildly. “After all, I’m here with you.”

Illya looked confused for a split second before he scowled at Napoleon more deeply than before. Napoleon beamed at him, then hurried off to the reception before Illya could recover and inflict bodily harm on him.

As he drew the receptionist aside, smiling his most charming smile at her and outlining his request in a low voice while making sure to keep her back to the reception desk, Illya snuck quietly behind the counter and opened the large registration book, flipping quickly through it. Within minutes, he shut the book, nodded once at Napoleon and disappeared silently round the corner.

A couple of minutes later, Napoleon rounded the corner and found his partner leaning insouciantly against the wall. “Got it?” he asked.

Illya gave him a look that said, _of course I did, what kind of question is that?_ “They are in room 2D,” he said succinctly, leading the way to the stairs.

When they reached room 2D, however, the sounds of someone moving around inside the room brought them to an abrupt stop outside the door.

“Varga must’ve given up on dinner and come back up to his room when he left just now,” sighed Napoleon. “We’ll have to try again later.”

They spent the rest of the night at the hotel bar, talking quietly over drinks and getting to know some of the other hotel guests. Or rather, Napoleon got to know some of the other guests while Illya sat beside him, silently nursing his drink. Occasionally he would dart a thoughtful glance over at Napoleon, who, busy with his own thoughts, failed to notice his partner’s scrutiny.

 

***

 

On the evening of the following day, there was a formal dinner, and dancing after, that was going to be held in the hotel’s restaurant. They’d decided to break into Varga’s room during the dinner – even if Varga wasn’t going to stay for the whole event, he’d have to come down to eat dinner at some point, they reasoned.

That evening, they dressed in the tuxedos they’d brought with them (“Just in case,” Napoleon had said. “You never know when you’ll be attending a nice event.” Illya had grumbled about being forced to wear a tuxedo when he was on vacation, but had grudgingly consented to bring his in the end, too) and went downstairs to the hotel restaurant. They were in luck – they immediately spotted Varga sitting at one of the tables with his mustached companion. Both men were ignoring each other and concentrating intently on their food.

“He doesn’t look like he’s having much fun,” said Napoleon, amused, provoking a snort of laughter from his partner.

After sampling a few of the hors d'oeuvres laid out on the tables, Napoleon and Illya snuck out of the restaurant and up to Varga’s hotel room. The lock opened easily under Illya’s skilled fingers, and the two men slipped quickly into the room, shutting the door behind them and pulling on the gloves they’d brought with them.

Illya went over to the two suitcases in the room, making a small, precise cut in the lining of each one and slipping a tracker into each, then carefully sealing up the hole after. Napoleon, meanwhile, started methodically searching through the drawers in the room, making sure to leave everything looking undisturbed.

“Napoleon,” said Illya.

“Hm?”

“Look at this,” Illya turned and held out a small, flat notebook, his eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement. “It was hidden at the very back of this suitcase.”

Napoleon took the book and flipped slowly through it, his eyebrows rising at the neat rows of figures listed in it. It looked like every one of Varga’s drug-related transactions for the past two years was listed there, along with amounts and contact names. He grinned gleefully. “Oh, Mr. Waverly’s going to _love_ this.”

“You didn’t by any chance bring a mini-camera with you, did you?” he asked his partner hopefully.

“I did, actually,” said Illya with a smirk. “However, it is upstairs in our hotel room.”

Napoleon chuckled. “All right, let’s go upstairs, take photographs of all these pages, then bring the notebook back. Hopefully Varga will be none the wiser, and we can use this to bring all his contacts in, too.”

Just then, they heard the distinct sound of a key being inserted into the door, and both men froze. Recovering first, Illya grabbed Napoleon’s wrist and dragged him toward the only closet in the room, pulling him inside and closing the door quickly and quietly behind them.

Trapped in the circle of Illya’s arms in the darkness of the small closet, his partner’s warm, solid body pressed closely against his, Napoleon leaned into Illya’s shoulder to avoid bumping his head on the coat hangers above his head and willed himself to _not_ get aroused by Illya’s nearness.

“It’s perfectly well-hidden,” snapped Varga’s voice, slightly muffled through the closet doors. “Stop being so paranoid.”

“You should have carried it with you,” retorted another voice – probably Mustache, thought Napoleon distractedly. He could smell Illya’s shampoo. Illya shifted slightly, his thigh brushing perilously near to Napoleon’s groin. Napoleon bit back a whimper.

“ _Anyone_ could come into this room,” the voice continued crossly.

“Do you still have the notebook?” Illya murmured, his lips brushing Napoleon’s ear, and Napoleon very nearly jumped out of his skin. Sheepish, he nodded, knowing that as closely as they were curled around each other, Illya could feel the movement.

Illya nodded slightly and sighed resignedly, a movement of lips and brush of warm air against his earlobe, and Napoleon involuntarily shivered and immediately hoped vainly that Illya hadn’t felt it. He prayed Illya wouldn’t try to talk anymore, because apparently even the threat of imminent discovery by an angry drug lord wasn’t enough to distract his body from wanting very badly to press Illya back against the closet wall and lick his way up that pale, perfect throat (and really, how had he ever managed to convince himself that this fixation on his partner was _normal?_ ).

“It’s – it’s not here!” Varga’s voice, hoarse, angry. Napoleon started, ardor fading. Beside him, Illya’s body was tense.

“Are you sure? Check again,” snapped the second voice tightly.

“ _It’s not here,_ ” Varga almost shouted. This prompted a flurry of hushed, furious discussion, which ended with Varga snapping, “check all the rooms. You start on the third floor, I’ll start on the first. Then we can both check the second floor.” The two men stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

 

***

 

Letting out the breath he’d been holding, Napoleon waited a few moments just in case either of the men decided to return to their room, then opened the closet door and hurried out, Illya close on his heels. They eased the door of the hotel room open and peeked up and down the corridor. Varga and Mustache were just rounding the corner toward the main stairs.

They hurried in the other direction, toward the emergency stairs, running up the one flight of stairs and making it into their room on the third floor before Mustache showed up. Napoleon hastily opened the drawer next to the bed, tossed the notebook in and shut the drawer, grimacing as he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. He turned to look at Illya, who was removing his gloves.

“Get into bed,” hissed Napoleon.

Illya stared blankly at him. “What?”

“ _Shh!_ ” He herded Illya over to the bed, all but shoving him down onto it. “They’re checking the whole building room by room. We can’t go out the door without being seen, and there’s a sheer three-story drop to the ground from the window – I don’t think even _you_ could do that without breaking an ankle. If we pretend to be...ah... _occupied_ , they might skip this room.”

Illya kicked his shoes off and crawled under the covers, looking very much put-upon. Napoleon hurriedly pulled his gloves, shoes and socks off, glanced down at his tuxedo, hesitated momentarily, then carefully took his tuxedo jacket off and laid it gently over the back of the armchair before getting in bed after his partner.

“This is not one of your best ideas,” grumbled Illya as they huddled together, both of them tucked under the blankets. He was curled up facing Napoleon, his breath warm on Napoleon’s cheek.

“Do you have a better idea?” It was slightly over-warm under the thick covers. Tucked firmly under the blankets, nose-to-nose with Illya, speaking to him in hushed tones, felt strangely intimate, never mind that they were both fully clothed and barely touching. This close, he could see flecks of darker blue – almost purple in the dim light – in the sky blue of his partner’s irises. Illya’s hair tickled his cheek. It was mildly distracting.

His partner did not, apparently, have a better idea. Grumbling under his breath, Illya rolled over and flopped onto his back. He gave a halfhearted moan and thrashed feebly around on the bed.

“Surely you can do better than _that_ ,” Napoleon sniffed scornfully. “And you call yourself a spy.” He moaned, a little louder than Illya had, and rolled around vigorously so the bed creaked loudly.

Illya turned his head, very slowly, to face Napoleon, and shot him the _nastiest_ look Napoleon had ever seen. Apparently challenging his partner’s spy credentials had been exactly the wrong – or _right?_ – thing to do, because Illya suddenly seemed _much_ more amenable to going along with Napoleon’s plan.

He tossed his head back against the pillows, body arching up into an imaginary lover’s touch. “ _Oh_ – Na _po_ leon,” he sighed, dragging out Napoleon’s name, breathy and low, intimate as a caress. “ _Yes_ – just like that – _ah_ – ” As he undid the buttons of his tuxedo jacket with his left hand, he brought his right hand up, running it lightly along his collarbone, then dragging it slowly, _achingly slowly_ down his chest, rucking up the pleats in the thick fabric of his tuxedo shirt, the tips of his fingers just grazing the studs. His breath hitched as the tip of his little finger brushed a nipple, and he paused to breathlessly circle the pads of his fingers around the hard nub, a groan escaping his parted lips, before moving his hand lower still. He brought his left hand up to tug his bowtie off and tossed it aside carelessly.

Napoleon had to admit, it was _quite_ the performance. He bit his lip hard as Illya’s wandering hand trailed lower, thumb tugging teasingly at the edge of his cummerbund. Illya’s lips were parted temptingly, his face flushed as he gasped Napoleon’s name again.

And oh _God_ , Illya’s damned _moaning_ was going straight to his cock. He rolled over onto his stomach to hide his erection, but that turned out to be a gross miscalculation, as the pressure on his cock, and oh, the _friction_ , just ended up exacerbating the problem tenfold. Dimly, he realized that he should probably stop staring at his partner with his mouth open, but T.H.R.U.S.H. could have burst into the room right at that moment for all he cared, and he _still_ wouldn’t have been able to tear his eyes away if his life depended on it.

Illya sat up then, pulling his tuxedo jacket off and tossing it off the side of the bed. He reached around behind him, loosening the ribbon on his cummerbund and pulling that off as well. His shirt had been rucked up by all his rolling around, and it hung halfway untucked out of his pants, exposing tantalizing glimpses of smooth, pale skin.

Napoleon groaned and his hips hitched involuntarily into the bed, nails digging into the sheets.

Illya turned to face him, hair tousled, lips parted and wet. He looked insufferably smug – and also completely debauched; Napoleon itched to grab him and kiss that smirk right off those full, pink lips. Illya ran his eyes down the whole length of Napoleon’s body, at Napoleon’s hips pressing into the bed, and his smirk ratcheted up a notch. Bastard, he knew _exactly_ the effect he was having on Napoleon. So that was how it was going to be, then. Well, two could play at that game.

Napoleon rolled onto his side to face Illya. No point in hiding his erection anymore; his partner was perfectly aware it was there – hell, he’d seemed to take a fair amount of pride in _putting_ it there. Catching and holding Illya’s gaze, Napoleon reached down with one hand to cup himself, squeezing, pushing his hips into his hand. He heard Illya’s breath catch.

His eyes never leaving Illya’s, Napoleon unzipped his pants and drew his cock out, already rock-hard and straining. He ran his fingers over it lightly, almost contemplatively; then he started to stroke himself lazily, drawing his thumb across the wetness at the slit, rubbing it over the head of his cock.

Almost despite himself, Illya’s eyes dropped to Napoleon’s cock, avidly following the movement of Napoleon’s hands, before he managed to drag his gaze back upward to meet Napoleon’s eyes again. He tipped his chin up, that small, smug smile still playing about his lips, but his breaths were coming quick and uneven, a warm flush high on his cheekbones.

 _Let’s see who’s in control now_ , thought Napoleon, and managed a breathless smirk at Illya. He stopped stroking himself for a moment to hastily remove his cummerbund and push his pants and boxers down, kicking them off impatiently, then arranged himself more comfortably on the bed and took himself in hand again. His partner’s eyes had been glued to him the entire time, and now Illya swallowed hard, his smug expression faltering.

If Napoleon had thought he was aroused before, watching Illya touch himself and peel his clothes off while _moaning Napoleon’s name_ , it was nothing compared to how he felt _now_ , legs spread wide, disheveled and wanton, hands on his cock and Illya’s dark, hungry gaze raking over him. He was stroking himself faster now, one hand cupping his balls as he thrust into his fist. “ _Illya,_ ” he groaned, eyes falling half-shut as he panted for breath.

Illya made a small, desperate noise in the back of his throat, breaths ragged. His fingers clenched and unclenched in the blankets, then crept almost unwillingly toward the bulge in his pants. When Illya unzipped his pants and drew his cock out, rosy and full, the tip already moist and glistening, Napoleon’s cock jerked hard and he stilled his hands for fear that he’d come right there and then.

Napoleon’s heart was thudding hard in his chest. He looked up at his partner. Illya’s eyes were wide and dark, pupils blown, and suddenly this didn’t feel very much like a game anymore.

Illya was the very picture of a wet dream, pink lips parted, knees spread as he touched himself, erect cock curving proudly up toward his belly, and _dear God_ , Napoleon had never wanted anything as much as he wanted this. “Illya,” he said, pleading. “Illya – _let me_ – ”

Illya sat back on his heels, tipping his head slightly to one side, lashes lowered, and that was all the invitation Napoleon needed as he practically tangled himself in the bedsheets lunging at his partner.

He managed to undo the top two tuxedo studs in Illya’s shirt with fumbling fingers before losing patience and wrenching the entire shirt up over his partner’s head, Illya raising his arms to help. Tossing the shirt aside, Napoleon stifled a moan as Illya, foregoing the removal of the studs altogether, pulled Napoleon’s bowtie off and yanked the top of his shirt open, tuxedo studs popping out, then wrestled the shirt up and over Napoleon’s shoulders and head, throwing it carelessly on the floor. He pulled Illya’s pants and briefs off as his partner obligingly lifted his hips, then shoved Illya down so he was lying flat on the bed, naked except for his socked feet, cornsilk blond hair fanning out around him like a halo.

Illya’s startled _“oh”_ cut off abruptly as Napoleon crawled between his legs and swallowed his cock whole. He cried out loudly, arching up into Napoleon’s mouth, hands tangling in Napoleon’s hair as Napoleon sucked him. Hands on his partner’s muscled thighs, Napoleon continued to lick up and down Illya’s cock, mouthing greedily at the tip, reveling in the little incoherent cries falling from Illya’s lips.

He’d fantasized occasionally – well, a little more frequently than occasionally, he admitted to himself dizzily, senses full of the scent of Illya’s musk, the feel of his skin and the taste of him, about what sex with Illya would be like. If they ever...well. It turned out that his imagination hadn’t even come _close_ to the real thing: he hadn’t expected Illya to be so _vocal_ in bed, and oh, _that_ was a revelation that coalesced into a curl of lust low in his belly, flaring white-hot.

He hummed low in his throat, lips wrapped firmly around his partner’s cock, and Illya gasped and thrust so hard that Napoleon had to quickly pull back a little so he wouldn’t choke. He cradled Illya’s balls with one hand, the other hand still on Illya’s thigh, and renewed his efforts; he thought that he could come from this alone, from Illya sobbing his name, arching into his mouth, fingers flexing in his hair.

“Ah – _Napoleon –_ ” moaned Illya, clenching his fingers almost painfully in Napoleon’s hair, and came, the salty-bitter taste of his seed coating Napoleon’s tongue. Napoleon kept up the suction as Illya shuddered through his orgasm, gentling his hold on his partner’s thigh.

Illya grabbed his arms and dragged him up to kiss him fiercely, licking his way insistently into Napoleon’s mouth as if seeking out a taste of himself. Napoleon curled his hands tightly around Illya’s biceps, parting his lips as Illya’s tongue swept into his mouth, and whined helplessly, desperately, as the sensitive tip of his cock brushed against Illya’s belly. Illya curled his hand around Napoleon’s cock, pumped once, twice; then Napoleon gasped, vision going white at the edges, choked out Illya’s name, and came, messily, all over Illya.

They flopped down on their backs on the bed after, side-by-side, still panting hard. As their breaths started to slow, Illya drowsily rolled onto his side and curled up against Napoleon, tucking his head against Napoleon’s shoulder. Napoleon stretched luxuriously, then languorously draped an arm over Illya, holding him close. _This is nice_ , he thought dreamily, eyes slipping slowly shut.

Two sharp raps on the hotel room door snapped him unpleasantly back to full awareness. Eyes wide, Napoleon sat up abruptly, Illya doing the same next to him. He’d completely forgotten about the reason they’d gotten into bed in the first place, and one glance at his partner told him that Illya had, too.

There was an audible click as someone opened the lock from the outside, and the door opened abruptly, Mustache standing in the doorway. He stared at Napoleon and Illya, mouth open. Napoleon and Illya stared back.

The room smelled of sweat and sex, and the scent of it, the memory of what he and Illya had just done, had Napoleon hardening again, to his mortification. He hurriedly pulled the blankets into his lap, accidentally pulling them off Illya in the process. And if there had been any doubts in Mustache’s mind about what had been going on in this room, the sight of Illya, blond hair wildly mussed and fully nude except for the pair of black socks he was still sporting, pale skin rosy from exertion and lightly sheened with sweat, milky spatters of Napoleon’s seed still on his belly and thighs, would have put those doubts straight to rest.

Mustache, red-faced, backed out of the room as fast as his feet could carry him, stammering apologies all the way. The door slammed shut in his wake.

“Hm,” said Illya into the ensuing silence. “Your idea _did_ work, after all.”

 

***

 

The next morning, Napoleon awoke to an empty room. The covers on Illya’s side of the bed had been thrown back, but his partner was nowhere to be seen, and on further investigation, the notebook in the drawer by the bed had disappeared, too.

Napoleon sat back on the bed and pondered. They’d taken the photos they needed the previous night and, after some discussion, had decided to return the notebook the following morning so that they wouldn’t risk running into either Varga or Mustache out searching for the notebook. So it looked like Illya had decided to return the notebook on his own. And the only reason he would do that was if he were avoiding Napoleon. Napoleon bit his lip, heart sinking. Maybe Illya regretted what had happened between them yesterday? He certainly hadn’t seemed bothered by it then – after cleaning up and discussing what to do with the notebook, they’d gone to bed without discussing what had happened. Maybe in the light of day Illya had changed his mind.

Napoleon spent the next hour having breakfast and feeling sorry for himself, but when he’d finished eating and Illya was still nowhere to be found, he started to get a little worried. Illya would never willingly miss a meal, not even to avoid Napoleon. With that thought in mind, he snuck up to Varga’s room and waited outside for a few minutes, listening for movement inside the room. Not hearing anything from inside the room, he quickly picked the lock and opened the door.

The room was empty, suitcases gone, save for Illya, who was lying at the foot of the bed bound and gagged. His lip was bloody, but other than that he seemed uninjured. Napoleon hastened to the bed, removing the gag and untying his irate partner, then made a quick call to Headquarters on his communicator, telling them about the trackers he and Illya had placed on Varga and Mustache, and about the notebook they were carrying.

“What took you so long?” Illya demanded, sitting up on the bed and scowling at Napoleon once he’d finished the call.

“Why’d you come here without me?” Napoleon countered, sitting down opposite him.

“It should have been a simple thing, to put the notebook back,” grumbled Illya. “And you were sleeping, so...” he trailed off, and snapped his mouth firmly shut.

Napoleon peered at him closely. “So, you were...letting me sleep in?” he asked incredulously, and he knew, he just _knew_ that he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to care.

Illya scowled at him and turned his face away.

“Hey,” said Napoleon, gently catching his partner’s chin and turning an unwilling Illya back to face him. “I thought you were avoiding me,” he admitted.

Illya’s brow furrowed. “Why – ”

“I thought you regretted, ah, what happened yesterday,” said Napoleon, and now it was his turn to look away, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

When he finally summoned the courage to look at his partner again, Illya was studying him, expression serious, but his eyes were gentle. “To tell you the truth,” Illya said, “I was not sure whether yesterday was a one-time event to you, or whether you wanted more, but now...if I may presume...”

“You may,” Napoleon said, smiling, and leaned forward to kiss him, careful to avoid the bruise on the corner of his lip.

Illya tilted his head, deepening the kiss, until Napoleon could stand it no longer and bore Illya to the bed, one hand grasping Illya’s wrist. He froze when Illya flinched away, hissing in pain. Drawing back, he gently examined Illya’s wrists in dismay, skin red and raw where he’d struggled against his bonds.

Napoleon scowled darkly. “I’ll kill him.”

Illya rolled his eyes, the effect somewhat spoiled by his mussed hair and flushed cheeks. “Stop being dramatic. I have been hurt much worse before.”

“And I hate it every single time,” Napoleon grumbled. The trill of his communicator interrupted whatever else he had been about to say, and he hastened to answer it.

“Mr. Solo,” came Mr. Waverly’s voice.

“Yes, sir?”

“Thanks to the trackers you and Mr. Kuryakin placed, Daniel Varga and his associate have been apprehended about eighty miles west of your location. The notebook was not found among their belongings.”

“I see, sir. Would you like us to bring the camera photos in? If we leave now – ”

“No need. We’ll send a courier for the camera. Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” said Mr. Waverly. “And good work, you two.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Napoleon, slightly stunned by his boss’ unprecedented display of generosity. There was one more thing he needed to talk to Mr. Waverly about though, which he hoped wouldn’t cause an immediate retraction of said generosity. He darted a questioning glance at Illya, who grimaced, but nodded resignedly in acquiescence.

“Ah, sir, one more thing,” Napoleon said into the communicator. “Illya and I have, er – ”

Mr. Waverly cut him off. “What you and Mr. Kuryakin do on your own time is none of my concern, Mr. Solo. I am aware of the particular hotel you are at. Just do be discreet, won’t you?”

The channel clicked shut.

Napoleon stared at his communicator, then at Illya. “He thought we – ”

“We are _now_ ,” Illya pointed out reasonably.

“Yes, but – ”

“And he will probably allow us to come back next year, if it is quiet.”

“Oh. Well...all right then.”

 

***

 

When they finally returned to their hotel room, Illya turned the key in the lock and pushed the hotel room door open, then stopped dead, Napoleon almost bumping into him.

The room was filled with a sumptuous spread of almost every kind of food imaginable, an array of seafood, meat and fruit beautifully arranged on huge serving dishes on a long table that had been set up in the center of the room. At one end of the table was a chilled bottle of champagne, and at the other end, a huge bouquet of red roses.

Illya turned around to look at Napoleon questioningly. Napoleon grinned back at him. “Happy birthday,” he said. “I know it’s a week early, but I wanted to celebrate with you while we’re still on vacation.”

Illya blinked. “When...”

“Remember when I distracted the receptionist so that you could check the ledger for Varga’s room?” said Napoleon smugly. “This is what I was asking her for when you accused me of flirting with her, you ungrateful – ack!”

He sprawled gracelessly across the bed as Illya tackled him onto it, kissing him hungrily, yanking his shirt open. Buttons flew everywhere. “Ah,” Napoleon gasped, “okay, not so ungrateful then – ” and arched almost right off the bed as Illya’s lips closed around his cock.

Some time later, sated and freshly showered, they sat down to tackle the lavish array of food laid out for them. Napoleon popped the cork on the champagne bottle and poured out two glasses of champagne for Illya and himself.

“To being partners,” he said with a smile, holding out his glass.

Illya returned the smile and touched his glass to Napoleon’s. “In every sense of the word.”

 

 

– End –

 

 


End file.
